a home under your flesh
by ember53608
Summary: he could do it right now, if he wanted to. syncopate a rhythm to his dreams and unravel her from the inside out.


I'm going to hell and that's all I have to say.

Read and review, please!

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 _"Ugh!"_ Marinette yells, mounting off of her chair to storm heatedly about her dorm for nearly the fifth time that day. She maneuvers nimbly around the crumpled up balls of paper that litter the floor. The portfolio due for her summer internship application is nowhere near close to being finished–not because she's been neglectful, just lost to any semblance of an inventive design–but the deadline to submit steadily approaches, less than what she assumes will be a stressful three days and seventeen hours away.

Adrien, over at her dorm for moral support, looks at her in concern. Her hair is a mess around her face and her eyes are so punched in frustration that she doesn't even think he can make out the blue of them. She scribbles into her notebook, taking no note of the anxious look painted onto him, instead tracing her pencil across the paper of her notebook in short, sharp strokes. It's evident that she's angry with herself, anyone could realize that just by looking at her. But what Adrien realizes is that Marinette is also tired, the lilac of lost sleep stamped under her eyes. Every day of this past week she's had something trivial to complain about, and though in all honesty it doesn't bother him much, it does worry him. He'd like to make her feel better, if he can.

"Mari," he murmurs, touching her shoulder. She can't even spare to look at him as she replies, roughly, "What?"

"You alright?" Adrien begins, because he doesn't want to rile her. If there is anything his girlfriend hates, it is someone else putting words to a problem she would rather not verbally address.

"If by alright, you mean busy, then yes." Her retort is as tart as ever, but thank goodness for the soft spot in his heart, he doesn't linger on it, instead trying to further coax her into the process of admitting that she needs a break.

"Too busy for some shut-eye?"

She stops her sketching momentarily to hold his gaze with a pointed, no-business look. Adrien lets a small hollow of air force its way down his throat. He doesn't like her like this, even if the aggression is somewhat reminiscent of her polka-dotted alter ego. She's wound up so tight that every part of her is threatening to unravel within the space of a second, if triggered properly.

He worries what will happen if such a trigger appears.

"I'll get as much shut-eye as you want me to once all of this is over," she says primly, fronting him with a falsely sweet smile. The look of determination in her eyes is daunting, to say the least, but she adds nonetheless, "Alright? Or should I go through the step-by-step process for you?"

Adrien answers with a defeated sigh, "Alright." The only thing that brightens his spirits even a little is the confident grin that Marinette now laces onto her lips. She likes to win things; winning makes her feel more in control -

\- which brings him to a thought.

He thinks back to a time when their knowledge of each other was new, to the weeks that she'd avoided him in an attempt to get some sort of hold over her gradually spiraling life. It had been terrifying for her, he remembers, to think of the power he held over her in being both the cat and the boy. She had looked at him with fearful eyes afraid to stare into the truth of it all: that she loved him just the same either way, and that such a fact was a danger to the chains she'd set around her heart.

It had been a long process, unraveling her from that wound up state. But, arduous journey aside, he had learned from the experience in a number of ways, one of them being that though she liked to start off slow, she didn't mind it when her battles were characteristic of a quick finish.

Adrien lets his thoughts flicker to a part of his mind he likes to keep bound. There are dreams of her there, resting in that crevice of his imagination, playing out to a slow and sultry tune that eventually crescendos into a fast paced allegretto. His cheeks color at the thought, but then he spares a look at her, at Marinette, frustrated and perched at the edge of her twin bed, legs crossed only at the ankles, not the knees.

He could do it right now, if he wanted to. Syncopate a rhythm to his dreams and unravel her from the inside out. The thought of it is certainly pleasing, if not embarrassing all the same. He swallows another pocket of empty air.

Marinette pays him no attention when he he settles himself, cross-cross applesauce, on the floor right in front of her feet. His line of sight is parallel to the V of her thighs, and it makes his mouth water. He shuts his eyes briefly and whispers a silent prayer before dipping to the cross of her feet. The bone of her ankles juts out, and with a quivering breath, he closes his lips over the small mountain of the left. Marinette flinches, looks down momentarily.

He can see it in her face: the will to not let her emotions fly away from her just yet. With a quick exhale of breath, she returns to her work, trying, he realizes in childish delight, to deny the presence of his lips on her flesh. Adrien lets the smallest of grins dance along his mouth as he moves slowly up the plane of her calf. Admittedly, his ministrations are nothing more than the puckering of his lips over her skin -

\- as well as the burn of his breath, and the tease of his tongue.

Marinette gives no indication of faltering just yet, though she does part her ankles just enough for him to move to her other calf. Adrien pulls up the smallest bit closer before starting to chart a cross-crossing path that will inevitably lead up to the inside of her thighs. His lips are chapped and run roughly along the slant of her legs, darting back and forth from one to the other. He lingers particularly at the hollows under her knees, pushing his tongue past his teeth and sucking softly at the salt-touched, star-studded skin that stretches there.

A small huff from Marinette, when he moves up from the hollows. He pauses at the base of her thighs, waits for some other sign of movement from her above him. To his disappointment, all Adrien hears is the ever incessant scrape of her pencil. He steels himself and decides that, though she may pop him one over the head for it later, the type of concentration she's demonstrating right now warrants a little more than just a lap at her skin.

Lips poised on the skin just above her right hollow, he takes his teeth and presses them to her skin. A slow pinch, a soft pull; nothing more than a teasing of flesh that he'd like to call home. Up above, Marinette allows the quietest of grunts to escape her, and with measured strokes, Adrien starts to move up the curve of her thigh.

Though his tongue never stops swirling new constellations onto her skin, he only ever lets his teeth come out every few inches. Each consecutive puncturing of flesh is met with a grunt a little louder than the last, and for the first time since he stepped into the room, Adrien feels the pace of her pencil start to become irregular. He continues to map her out with his ministrations, until a whisper of a gasp leaves her, and he realizes that he is at the hem of her shirt.

When in her dorm, Marinette only ever wears a long shirt and some underwear. No bra or undershirt, no shorts or jeans. Just two pieces of irrelevant clothing to keep her covered (from the waist-up, at least) and keep her free. He relishes at the thought of the practice now, at the thought of all the opportunities that arise from such a set-up.

He feels her hands move closer to his scalp, feels her fingers dash at the curls of his sun-meadow hair. Heart hammering in his chest, Adrien moves forward, under the hem of her shirt and into view of her boxer shorts: a simple, tantalizingly opaque black. The tip of his nose touches one of the seams, and he smells her, all sweet and sour and sultry, like a flower.

Adrien opens his mouth against the fabric, sinking his teeth in only so far as to garner purchase in the cotton material, and not her sensitive skin. Every inch of the thin material is damp, wet with a honey of pleasure brought on by none other than him. With a low growl building up in his throat, he pulls on the fabric until it hits her knees, then watches as it falls to the floor from there. Marinette's hands tremble in anticipation above him, and he pictures her struggling to hold onto her pencil. The image makes him want to laugh.

Now, however, is not the time for laughing, as indicates the mixed wind punctuated by each of their ragged breaths. Adrien looks back to the V of her thighs, to the soft matting of blackish-blue curls that rests at the top of it. He moves his head in a little closer, takes an experimental drag across the flesh of her lips. The shudder that ripples through her then can be felt all the way down in the pits of his stomach, and unintentionally, he answers it with a purr.

"Adrien," she manages huskily, before falling silent again. The earlier echo of pencil scratches can no longer be heard in the room, her sketchbook long having left her fingers so that she might tangle them in his hair. Adrien replies in tandem with her name, uttering it drunkenly before darting his tongue out to the obvious nub of her clit. A sharp keen sails from Marinette, followed by another when he dares to latch his teeth onto the little pleasure instrument.

He sucks and prods at her for what seems like forever, drawing his tongue in a sinful constellation along her length, yet never venturing somehow into the region past it all. Her core makes him think of a honeysuckle, of hummingbirds drawing up close to the bell before planting their mouths at a core filled with nothing but sweet, sweet nectar. Marinette mewls and pitches back, involuntarily pushing her hips further ahead, until his entire mouth is flushed up against the face of her core and the bump of her clit.

"Dieu. . . aide moi. . ." she pants, and with instinctive timing Adrien brings up a finger to slip past her folds. The pleasure-stained cry that erupts from her in that moment has him so stoked with lust that he nibbles even harder on her clit and adds a second finger to the first. She is wet and hot around his hummingbird mouth, and her nectar coats his fingers from the tips of the digits to the base where they meet his hand. He works her quickly, adds speed and even another finger in answer to her murmurs, her mewls, her moans.

Earlier, he had feared what might happen were something to unravel her; now, however, all he wants is for her to fall apart at his touch, to unravel like a thread at a tailor's nimble fingers. Her frustrations about her work are all of gone now, replaced instead with impatient desires that only sex like this can fulfill. To weak to sustain the heat of him on her, inside her, she lets her fingers detach from his hair and her upper body fall back onto the flat of her bed as she writhes with empowering ripples of pleasure.

"Adrien," Marinette gasps in between moans, his name drawing out on her voice like a gospel, like a prayer. The moment she comes, white floods her vision and ecstasy overtakes her, sending her hips bucking in spite of Adrien's one free hand holding them down. Her hair, spread about her like a fan, sticks to every surrounding with the stickiness of sex-driven sweat, her chest rising and falling with tremors that, for the time being, refuse to fill her lungs.

Adrien gradually draws the three of his fingers out, each one's escape accompanied by a moan-mingled sigh from Marinette. He takes a moment to feather kisses across certain parts of her core - her clit, her lips, her honeysuckle bell - whispering "my Lady" with each action of endearment. When he appears out from under her shirt, his mouth glistens with the nectar of what looks to be a thousand flowers. Nonetheless, he sucks each of his fingers dry, delighting in the lusty dip of Marinette's lashes as she lifts her head to watch him.

She sighs dreamily into the kiss he gifts her with once he's crawled onto the space of bed left beside her. The parts of her that are still left in his mouth are a much better reward than some approval from a fashion mogul, now that she thinks about it. Marinette leans over and tangles their legs together, barely grinding her core (still soaked and spilling with the fruit of his ministrations) against the obvious bulge in his pants. Adrien stares at her, a teasing lilt tugging at the smile on his face.

"No work you have to finish?" he drawls huskily, eyeing the splayed out sketchbook and pencil resting across two of its pages. He struggles to keep another growl from working its way up his throat, the drawn out vibrations of her hips against his taunting him into a steady pre-cum.

Marinette raises an eyebrow at him, mirroring the same smile but with a much more daunting, dangerous curve. "If by work, you mean you, then yes, I believe I do." The groan that escapes his lips then sends a giggle bubbling up from her mouth, and she presses a quick kiss to his lips.

"Not to worry, mon cheri," she whispers, and then she rolls him over onto his back with such force that Adrien can do nothing but stare at her in awe. He's unraveled her, as he once did before, but evidently he chose not to remember the part where she unraveled him in tandem after, and this is his punishment for it. Her lips, slightly flushed and puckering like petals, settle close to his ear. Adrien murmurs a las, desperate prayer as she breathes into his ear:

"I promise I'll be gentle."

And then he loses himself, as she is anything but.


End file.
